


the twilight king

by Gon (pepperedfox)



Category: Fate/EXTRA, Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:54:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24130039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepperedfox/pseuds/Gon
Summary: A man enters Gawain’s dream, tall and long of limb. He bows his head so he may properly look down at him and speaks in a voice deeper than any cave. “Wherefore doth thee not go to him?”“I must attend to my watch.”“What is left of the kingdom? Where art thy enemies?” The stranger receives no answer and expects none. “Doth thee intend to live and die by these shores?”“If my king wills it, I shall.” An answer ground out through clenched teeth.“And who is't is thy king, Sir Gawain? Speaketh his name, and I shalt depart.”---Percival arrives at Chaldea. Gawain realizes he is at a crossroads. Who exactly does he wield his sword for?
Relationships: Gawain | Saber/Leonardo B. Harwey
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	the twilight king

It is Lancelot who brings the news, his rapid steps a swelling drumbeat announcing his arrival to the mess hall. “Percival!” he exclaims. “Percival’s come, milord!”

A hush descends.

Then a chaos of movement explodes at the knights’ table. Gawain use his girth to his advantage. There are squawks of protest from neighboring diners, but it matters not. He’s among the first on his feet and the first to lead the stampede through Chaldea’s halls. One of theirs has arrived! Nothing else matters.

Da Vinci has the misfortune of standing by the summoning room’s entrance. When the gallant Knights of the Round Table squeeze themselves through the door, she yelps, “You’ve _got_ to be kidding me! Get yourselves in a line before I shove you hooligans out!”

Gawain scans the room. Ritsuka and Ms. Kyrielight are speaking to a young boy. His hair is as fair as the morning sun, his eyes the clear green of a summer glade. He carries himself with the total confidence of a true knight. Gawain feels something burn in his chest. Distantly, da Vinci continues railing against them. He barely hears her. All his attention is on the slight form before him. At last, the boy looks his way. Those bright eyes widen at the sight of Gawain, but quickly crinkle with a smile.

“Greetings,” Leo B. Harwey says. “I, Percival, Saber, am honored to join Chaldea's ranks.”

* * *

“I’ve never seen you look so surprised, Gawain!”

“And I likely will never be as surprised again. Our reunion must be fate.”

They trek through the evergreen forest side-by-side, naturally matching each other’s pace. There is no looming threat to be dealt with. Therefore, Chaldea has the luxury of rayshifting for supplies, instead of battle. It is Gawain’s turn to scout and Leo, eager to see the World of this timeline, declares himself his partner.

Gawain steals a look at him. Leo hasn’t changed. Could someone who never existed in this timeline be considered ‘changed’ to begin with? He is a stranger and an old friend all at once. There are hints of Percival’s influence. The chainmail armor that glints in the sun. How his words dip into the roll of Common Brittonic. But the mischievous smile is all Leo, as is the stately manner of his walk.

“I must confess,” Leo says, “I didn’t consider myself qualified to be a Servant. I’m one of the best Masters in the world, certainly, but those skills don’t apply to my current situation. This new power dynamic will take some getting used to. Exactly how many Servants is Fujimaru contracted to?”

Gawain tells him. Leo’s eyes pop. “Is that so!” is all he allows himself to say.

“Our Master is far more capable than they appear.”

“I must agree. The universe has a propensity for bestowing gifts upon the plainest-looking people, doesn’t it?” Leo sighs. “If you’ve followed them this far, I must admit they possess some level of competence.”

“I’m honored you’d trust my judgment.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Leo replies. “You were my Servant before you were theirs. That will never change.”

Such a declaration should not please him so, yet Gawain cannot help the smile inching up his lips. “Indeed, Leo. Although, if I may be so bold as to speak…”

“I permit you to be as bold as you please.”

“Our relationship has been altered by our situation. As things stand, you are, dare I say it, my _kouhai_.”

The suggestion tickles Leo so much he bursts into ringing laughter. “Oh, I’m glad I gave you permission to speak your mind. You’ve always been delightfully straightforward, Gawain, I sometimes wish everyone was like you.”

“Then the title is to your liking?”

“I may as well try it on. A king— er, knight, may learn much from squeezing into a commoner’s shoes.”

Leo shines beneath the dappled sunlight, radiant with happiness. It strikes Gawain how bright his former Master seems in comparison to his memories. There is a light in those features, far different from the steely glow of royalty or the bold glimmer of pride. It is the same light he’d seen in Gareth’s eyes whenever she spoke of joining the Round Table. Warm. Hopeful, with love and eagerness for the future to come.

* * *

In his dreams, Gawain sees a lake ringed by wormwood and oak. There is a boat afloat at its center, swayed not by breeze or current. He is to meet someone at that boat. That is all he remembers. Yet he dares not step into the cool waters. When he looks down, the reason for his hesitation becomes clear.

His pure armor drips crimson.

* * *

Gawain’s hands have been tempered by endless battles. The skin has scarred over and over again, giving it a rough-hewn feel. It is only natural for a knight, a being trained solely for the purpose of becoming his king’s sword.

Magus rarely have such damaged hands. Even if their magic circuits may snap their nerves, even if they handled elements that would tear asunder normal men, their kind reserved a certain pride in maintaining a scholarly veneer.

Leo’s hands rest in Gawain’s like small, slight birds. Callouses are beginning to bubble on the palm, the vestigial reactions of a humanoid form. The young man has been in the simulator all morning. His spiritual core may be a knight’s but it’s ultimately still _Leo_ who’s wielding the sword. Leo – a boy fluent in the language of politics, who knew when to press a sharp threat to his foe’s neck, who was raised to see and understand and calculate from his throne, whose hands have been afforded the luxury of being soft – is not meant for the front lines.

“Your grip is wrong,” Gawain says.

“How can it be wrong?” Leo responds immediately. “I am a Saber, aren’t I?”

“At your core, perhaps.”

“Now what is that supposed to mean?”

Gawain opens a jar of bitter-smelling ointment, skims a dollop off the top. “My talents lay not with magecraft. I cannot give you a certain answer, my ki— my _kouhai_. But what I can understand is your blade. You are hesitating.”

“That’s your opinion.” Leo wrinkles his nose. “Must you put so much on?”

“As a king wields his crown, so does a knight wield his sword. Percival drew his sword for the romance of knighthood. Naïve as it may seem, it was a cause he could die for. That same question now lies before you.”

“I’ve known what I’ve wanted since my birth.”

“Perhaps. But you are now a Servant, not the Master.” _Not the king_.

“Wow.” Leo smiles. “Listen to you, Gawain. You almost sound as if you’ve a brain.”

“They say every dog has its day,” he answers, and Leo shakes his head in bemused silence. Gawain finishes applying the ointment and ends their training for the day. In the sanctuary of his own room, he opens and closes his worn hands.

What he would not give to keep Leo’s from looking like his.

* * *

A man enters Gawain’s dream, tall and long of limb. He bows his head so he may properly look down at him and speaks in a voice deeper than any cave. “Wherefore doth thee not go to him?”

“I must attend to my watch.”

“What is left of the kingdom? Where art thy enemies?” The stranger receives no answer and expects none. “Doth thee intend to live and die by these shores?”

“If my king wills it, I shall.” An answer ground out through clenched teeth.

“And who is't is thy king, Sir Gawain? Speaketh his name, and I shalt depart.”

“I warn you, specter. Hold your tongue.”

"Who is't doth thee wield thy sword for?”

Galantine burns in his hand with the heat of a wildfire. Gawain watches himself draw the sword, watches it cut a flaming arc down to the man’s gaunt shoulder. There is no resistance. The skin curls like paper but the stranger bears it without a sound. There is a flash of metal – the pointed, curved tip of a lance – and in one swift motion, he pierces Gawain through the heart.

* * *

Nothing and everything changes in the next few weeks. Life at Chaldea tumbles on, chaotic and mundane as it’s always been. The Round Table welcomes Percival with shared stories of the old days, with too bitter beer, with a seat squeezed between Gareth and Lancelot who vie for the newcomer’s attention. Only Gawain sees Leo; only Gawain understands why his fellow knight sometimes withdraws to the library and command room, where he devours news of the outside world.

It is the King of Storms, not Arturia, who summons Gawain to her room. He remains standing. “Your Majesty.”

“Be at ease,” she says. “If I wanted a fight, Llamrei would have already crushed you. Though, if you continue looking at me like that, I may let him do it.”

“I humbly ask you to state your reason for calling me.”

“I am not your king, but I still see you as a… knight of mine.”

“I will not swear allegiance to you.”

“I don’t want that. I only want to warn you, Sir Gawain: you are no longer a sword.”

“I hope so. It would be difficult to get around as a thing without legs.”

“Listen to me.” Her golden eyes, more dragon than man, flash. “I made a choice when I drew Rhongomyniad. That is how I became the thing you see now. Kings are corrupted by their humanity. But in Chaldea, you are a man, Gawain. You may freely choose.”

He feels hot and cold all over. He does not let it show. “Choose what?”

“The choice I made now lies before you. That is all I have to say to you. Begone from my sight.”

* * *

It dawns upon Gawain during a routine mission gone wrong. He stumbles through the gnarled thickets, the setting sun casting long shadows that stretch before him like a field of black gravestones. A great hiss shakes the very ground he walks upon, louder than any waterfall, colder than any ice. He has escaped the hydra, but it will find him again. It is only a matter of time.

Galantine’s light flickers. Soon, he will be left in the darkness. _I must keep walking. I will buy him some time to escape, at the very least._

His foot comes down the wrong way. Gawain trips into a patch of overgrown wormwood and brambles. His hands shake as he hoists himself up with Galantine. The hiss is now a storm roaring in his ears and he knows – the day has ended at last for the Knight of the Sun. He closes his eyes.

A streak of crimson pierces the darkness.

“Gaze upon perfection!”

There is light, so bright he cannot help but look. A young prince – no, a young man whose Saint Graph has ascended, surrounded by motes of sunlight, brighter than any summer sun – stands before the great beast. It is Leo, his burning sword held high like a beautiful torch alit with St. Elmo’s fire, great cape flared out like wings. The hydra screams and Leo screams back:

“Scatter, impurities. Gather, divine light. Thrice broken, thrice forged – this sword is my soul, a vessel for His will.”

And lost before the wonderful sight, Gawain understands what fate has been trying to tell him.

“Blade of the Fisher King!”

Warmth. The dream of a long ago and distant world that will never be. It cuts through the storm, dispels the darkness like a bursting star. When it is all over, Gawain feels as if he’s been washed ashore, exhausted and new all at once.

Leo kneels. “How could you leave your _kouhai_ on his own? Look at what’s happened to you.”

Gawain shouldn’t smile, but he does. “My apologies.”

“You truly are a dunce sometimes. Come, can you stand?”

Leo holds out his hand. Gawain clasps it between his. It is no longer the slight thing he remembers; it is solid and familiar, fitting perfectly in his grasp. A rush of fondness overcomes him and he presses the gloved knuckles against his bruised forehead.

“… Gawain?”

 _The choice I made now lies before you_ , the King of Storms had said. He closes his eyes and wonders how he could have been blind to such great a light all this time. “It’s growing dark,” Gawain says. “We should hurry and find the others.”

There is a considerable pause. “Yes. We ought to.” The words fall softly from Leo’s lips. “What a turn of events this is. I’ve become your protector in this life.”

“Ha ha ha. One battle does not a knight make.”

“You can’t seriously say such a thing when you’re lying beaten on the ground.”

“You’re right, I’ll say it standing.”

His own cape lies singed on the ground, caught in the claws of the brambles, the prickly leaves of wormwood poking through its holes. Gawain eases it from its prison while Leo keeps watch. Abruptly, his companion says, “You can’t possibly wear that. It’s in tatters. Here, let us trade.”

His Ascension has granted him a fair bit of height. He is not as wide as Gawain, but his cape is thick and comfortable enough to envelope him. Gawain hesitates to hand his ruined cape, but Leo gives him no chance to refuse. He snatches it and clasps it over his shoulders.

“Oh,” Gawain says, “you look…”

“Go on.”

“… poorer than you ought to.”

Leo throws his head back and laughs. It is a sound capable of lighting up the stars in the sky. “You think so? Then I’ve accomplished my goal of looking the part of a common man!” He sheathes his sword and begins the long trek back. Stops by the bisected foot of the hydra to look over his shoulder at Gawain, his fair features aglow with confidence. “Are you coming?”

“Yes,” Gawain says, making his choice. He smiles. “I’m coming with you.”

**Author's Note:**

> i had a great deal of fun writing this fic! there's so much i wanted to include: the parallels between gawain's quest for the holy grail and percival's... the struggle between the ideal knight vs. the ideal king... but maybe that will be for another time :^)
> 
> doing research for this fic also made me go absolute ham feral and i wrote a whole profile for the percival-leonardo demiservant which you can find here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1kzp8CM6DqmKPCV-v3o5FIYz18SN2Iu3-mC4szme57To
> 
> anyway thanks for reading!!


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